


You and me in our playhouse

by Slappersonly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, Filth, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-19
Updated: 2012-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:37:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slappersonly/pseuds/Slappersonly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moran gets bored on a stakeout and makes his own fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You and me in our playhouse

It's five past three in the morning, and Sebastian has been sitting on a high rise rooftop with his eye pressed to the sights of his L115A3 long range rifle for the past six hours. It's a cool, late March night, and he's jiggling his leg rhythmically to stave off the chill. It's a reconnaissance mission, nothing at all interesting, and since the lights went out four hours ago in the flat he's watching, there hasn't been a single movement from inside that he can discern. His arse is going numb, and he really, really needs a piss. The metal door that leads to the stairwell creaks open behind him, and he turns his head slightly in the direction of the sound, tensing, but doesn't remove his eye from the sights. He relaxes at the familiar sound of Jim's tread.

“I come bearing sustenance,” he announces, far too cheerful for the time of morning.

“Thank fuck,” Seb mutters, “I was about to piss myself for warmth.”

He pulls back from the gun and rubs at his eyes with his knuckles. Jim drops a thick woollen scarf around his shoulders. It's soft and warm against his neck and smells warm and slightly spicy, a familiar scent of Jim's cologne. He untangles his hands from it, shaking them free impatiently. Jim's wearing a thigh length grey-brown woollen coat, collar turned up against the chill.

“There you go,” he says cheerfully, in an abnormally good mood. “Move over.”

Seb stands from the plastic folding chair he's been sitting in, stretching. Jim sets down a chair identical to Seb's that he'd carried under his arm, kicking it open before dropping a leather shoulder bag on it. He pulls a Thermos flask from the bag and unscrews it, sniffing it. He puts the lid back on and replaces it, pulling out another Thermos and passing it to Seb.

“Coffee,” he says, and Seb sets it on the low wall in front of his chair.

“What's that?” he asks, nodding at the flask Jim had put back in his bag.

“Peppermint tea,” he replies, and Seb screws up his nose.

“I need to piss,” he mutters, and instead of taking it off, he throws the trailing end of the scarf over his shoulder, grateful for the warmth. Jim shrugs, and takes Seb's place on the chair.

“Don't move anything,” Seb warns as he walks around to the back of the doorway leading down into the flats, unzipping his trousers.

“Have you seen anything?” Jim calls.

 _This is the fucking high life,_ Seb thinks dryly as he pisses against the wall, glancing upwards as a plane heading for Heathrow rumbles over his head.

“No,” he shouts back. “Nothing. For six hours.”

“Oh, well,” Jim says musingly. Seb can't help but think that if it had been him sitting in that uncomfortable plastic chair in the cold for the past six hours, he wouldn't sound quite so blithe. He zips his trousers back up, and heads back to Jim. He's shucked his coat off and is sitting in Seb's chair, legs crossed. He's carefully twirling the sights lens, messing with the focus.

“I told you not to touch that,” Seb says, prodding the back of his head.

“You didn't wash your hands,” Jim murmurs in reply, peering through the sights. “Don't touch me.”

Seb grabs the Thermos and pulls up the chair that Jim bought up, dropping the bag on the floor and sitting behind him. He pours himself a cup and inhales deeply; it's strong and hot, and the first mouthful burns down his throat pleasantly.

“When did everyone start closing their curtains?” Jim complains.

Seb sets the Thermos cup down between his legs, balancing it carefully. He reaches out and digs his fingers into Jim's skinny, angular shoulders.

“Since people like you started spying on them.”

“Boring,” Jim mutters, and Seb rubs his thumbs into the muscles.

“That about sums it up. I've been watching this man for three days, and he's the most predictable motherfucker I've ever had the misfortune of spying on.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Jim replies, but he slumps backwards in his chair to allow Seb easier access, tilting his head to the side as Seb's fingers slide closer towards his neck. Jim's shirt is open at the collar, casual, and Seb's fingers dip into it, neat nails scratching along the short hair at the nape of Jim's neck.

“You still haven't washed your hands,” Jim complains.

“Nope,” Seb says easily, and scrapes his chair closer to the back of Jim's.

“You're disgusting.”

Seb hums in agreement and leans his chin on his shoulder, tugging at the collar of his shirt to access the long, pale slope of his neck. He brushes the back of his fingers across the dark stubble along Jim's jaw before placing a kiss under the hinge. He presses his mouth to Jim's shoulder blade, nose against his shoulder, as he unbuttons the second and third buttons down on Jim's shirt, sliding his hand inside. His thumb rests against Jim's sharp collarbone, palm pressed to his breastbone. He can feel Jim's heart thrumming strongly under his hand, and he scratches his fingers lightly across his friend's smooth chest.

“We're in public, you know,” Jim murmurs, but he hasn't moved to stop Seb yet.

“We're on a fucking _roof_ ,” Seb corrects, voice muffled by Jim's shirt.

“Big Brother sees all,” Jim replies, darkly amused by the notion.

Seb slides his hand out from his shirt and pulls his chair directly to the back of Jim's, bracketing him with his legs. He slips his hand down to his side, fingers curling around his ribcage. He presses his mouth to Jim's ear. Jim huffs out a breath and brings up his shoulder, ticklish.

“Big Brother can watch,” Seb whispers against his ear, before catching his earlobe between his teeth and biting lightly.

“Always the exhibitionist,” Jim says, but Seb can see that his long eyelashes are lowered, lips curved in a slight smile. He untucks Jim's shirt, sliding his hand under and skating his fingers along the slight curve of his hip. He strokes along to the fly of Jim's trousers, where he toys with the button for a moment before following the trail of hair leading up to Jim's navel. There's a small crease of skin on Jim's stomach from where he's slumped in the chair and Seb smooths his palm across it before sliding it back up to his ribs.

Jim begins to twist in the chair, turning to face him, but Seb gently butts him back round, temple to cheek.

“Eyes on the target,” he murmurs, and Jim scoffs.

“He's hardly going to go anywhere.”

“Expect the unexpected,” Seb says, and tweaks Jim's nipple sharply between his finger and thumb. Jim hisses.

“It's not like I can see him from here anyway,” he complains, and Seb reaches down, fingers tucking under Jim's knee and pulling so that he uncrosses his legs. Jim shuffles in the chair to seat himself properly again, both feet on the floor, and he lets out a long suffering sigh. Rather than being irritated, amusement wells up in Seb's chest until he can't contain his grin and laughs quietly, tucking his face into the curve where Jim's neck meets his shoulder. He's never met anyone else who can sound so fucking put out by someone trying to give him a handjob.

“What?” Jim snaps testily.

“Nothing,” Seb says soothingly, unable to fully mask the amusement in his voice. He runs his fingers up from Jim's knee, over his slim thigh and dipping between his legs, running along the zip of his trousers before sliding down, palming his half-hard cock. He sets his teeth gently on the bony knob of the top of Jim's spine, scraping them carefully across the exposed skin before sucking, hard. He pulls back, stroking the thumb of his free hand against the reddened skin. It's not as dark as it could be, though, and Seb repeats the action. Jim hisses, irritated, but Seb can feel his cock getting harder beneath his palm. Drawing back, he regards the red skin with satisfaction.

“That'll bruise,” he says, smug.

“Perfect, thank you,” Jim replies, annoyed, but he isn't walking away, and Seb counts that as a victory. He tugs the collar of Jim's shirt back into place from where he'd pushed it away. It hides the mark perfectly and, satisfied, he pulls it back down.

“You can't tell,” he says, and continues mouthing at Jim's neck. His own cock is throbbing between his legs, hot and heavy, and he grinds the heel of his palm down to attempt to take the edge off it. He then reaches up runs his fingers through Jim's hair, following the curve of his skull. He tries to twist around once more, but Seb spreads his fingers across the back of his head, keeping him in place.

“Eyes in front,” he murmurs against Jim's ear. He shifts to the edge of his seat, his chest pressed to the back of Jim's chair, sliding his hand further down between Jim's legs, using his thumb to rub circles against the hard ridge of Jim's cock pressing against his trousers before bringing his palm back up along the length. Jim's fingers curl against his thigh. Seb hooks his chin over Jim's shoulder, watching his own hand moving between Jim's legs, and slips his free hand back into his shirt, palm over Jim's heart, which is beating harder and faster than before. He swipes his thumb over Jim's hard nipple and Jim sighs, slouching down in his chair and leaning his head backwards and to the side so it's resting against Seb's own. He cants his hips up against Seb's palm as they build a rhythm together.

After a while, the angle Seb's holding his arm at over Jim's shoulder causes it to burn, and so he brings it down, sliding his hand along the inside of Jim's thigh before closing around his hip. His wrist is beginning to ache from the repetitive rubbing, and so he kisses underneath Jim's ear before nipping at his earlobe.

“I'd quite like to be off this rooftop before sunrise, if you don't mind,” he murmurs, and Jim lets out a shaky laugh.

“Piss off,” he gasps, and knocks Seb's hand away from between his legs, fingers at the button of his trousers. “If you're in such a rush--”

“No,” Seb says quickly, “leave it,”

Jim ignores him and pops the button, and Seb grabs his slim wrist, grinding the delicate bones together while cupping between Jim's legs with his other hand, squeezing gently.

“I said,” he whispers, lips pressed to Jim's ear, “leave it.”

There's an edge to his voice, a bite of authority, and Jim exhales heavily through his nose.

“If you think I'm coming in my trousers like a teenager--” he begins, and breaks off, biting back a groan as Seb grinds his palm down.

“That's exactly what I think,” Seb replies, ignoring the burning in his wrist and resuming rubbing Jim's cock. Jim swears and spreads his legs further apart. His foot catches the rifle stand and the gun wobbles.

“Careful,” Seb mutters.

“Fuck you,” Jim hisses and then groans, fingers clamping around Seb's wrist to keep his hand in place. He pushes his hips up, grinding his cock against Seb's palm, once, twice, before he bows his head and moans, hips jerking as he comes. Seb presses his lips to Jim's shoulder and keeps his hand still for Jim to push against as he shudders, only withdrawing it when Jim pulls it away, panting.

Seb kisses the side of Jim's neck again, fingers rubbing at his shoulders, inhaling the subtle scent of his cologne. Jim's pulse is strong beneath his lips, and he arches his back and stretches his legs out, groaning with distaste as he pulls the crotch of his trousers away from him. He stands up and tugs at the legs of his trousers, straightening them, his nose wrinkled in disgust. Seb's fingers curl around the back of Jim's now empty chair as he watches him, hopeful. He reaches out and takes the coat from his chair, shrugging it on. Jim's genial post-coital mood never lasts long, but the mildly irritated look already settling across his face is a new speed record.

“You're leaving? Now?” Seb asks, incredulous. Jim casts him a dark look.

“You've ruined a perfectly good pair of Westwood trousers,” Jim gripes, carefully buttoning up his thick coat.

“ _I've_ \-- fine.”

He picks himself up and throws him down in the chair Jim had been sitting in, leaning forward and concentrating fiercely through the sights of the rifle, studiously ignoring the insistent erection between his legs.

 _Insane neat-freak bastard,_ he thinks furiously. He can feel Jim's eyes on him, and after ignoring him for a minute he relents and looks up, scowling. He's smiling slightly, lopsided.

“You did say you were looking for a way to keep warm,” he says, and there's a smug note to his voice that makes Seb grit his teeth. He turns his hand over, palm up, and looks at the watch face on the underside of his wrist.

“You've got about an hour left, after all. “

He swings the leather bag over his shoulder and saunters away, his stride showing no sign of the discomfort he must be feeling. Seb can even hear him whistling as he heads down the stairwell, the sound echoing off the concrete walls.

Seb throws himself back in the chair violently, scraping his fingers through his hair in frustration. The movement brings the soft scarf up to brush at his chin, and he struggles momentarily with it to tear it away from him, dropping it on the dirty floor. The irritation doesn't stop him from unzipping the fly of his trousers, however, and slipping his hand inside. It's not the most glamorous end to a stakeout, or to an encounter with Jim, but it sure as hell beats freezing on a rooftop.


End file.
